


A compilation of stories yet to be

by skarrutwoo (orphan_account)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dancer! OC, F/F, Flowers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, M/M, death personified, kind of, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23820640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/skarrutwoo
Summary: The iridescence of humans always fascinated me. Through the years, each of them reeked of fire and of envy and of softness fonder than those of Hades and Persephone’s. The gods are right to be jealous—these beings are making a god of their own.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character





	A compilation of stories yet to be

The song starts and there comes the flowing words, the ethereal melody, and him, in the middle, dancing. It takes the form of floating silk, thrown in the air and the colours are freely dancing with him. 

It fell nothing short of ethereal. 

In the sidelines, my eyes trailed towards his body, contorting in a way that made it look like he was flying. His face’s expression remained stoic, yet angelic. A step, twice, and his hands are forming its very own halo on his head.

On the misty aftermath of the rain outside, several flowers grew on his little garden, I could feel it. The petals slowly drinking in the sunlight as the roots replenishes from the rain. 

Irony tasted sweet then—who knew that life as worthless as a flower’s could be so sweet on the brink of a young life’s death? What this boy wished on that star was something heartbreaking, but the compliance remains. If a tear needs to be shed, so be it.

The lighting in this room makes way for his scars to be seen. Each line is a different story, and his body remains the book that it’s stored in.

It reads of adventures far, far more beautiful. And yet inside there lies a simple melancholic poem of his life. 

The chorus comes and I could feel my breath stop. The strings drawing both of our hands together tighten, and tears gather at the edges of my eyes.

 _No, not yet. Let him have this last dance_.

  
He looks iridescent in the middle of the lights, surrounding him like stars. His movements accelerate and I vaguely wonder if it was possible to recreate such a beauty. 

The stars would argue that yes, a mortal life could simply be recreated through reincarnation, but I beg to differ. Beauty relies on the person who creates it, and no person is ever the same. What creates him might be a bundle of little quirks that he got from other individuals, but that as a whole makes him, and I think that he is very much beautiful. In this lighting, his whole body simply glowed. 

Glowed far, far more beautifully than the stars. 

The iridescence of humans always fascinated me. Through the years, each of them reeked of fire and of envy and of softness fonder than those of Hades and Persephone’s. The gods are right to be jealous—these beings are making a god of their own. 

_Tug_. His dancing slows, and his hands reach up to the ceiling, drawing the string even closer. In this space, there’s barely any room for the dancer to move, but his body passes through mine like silk, and he can’t feel me. He can’t feel me, not yet. 

At the second verse, he stops completely. Panting, he clutches at his heart and his breathing contracts slowly. 

The room looks blurry to him now as it swayed. Falling to the ground, his legs grow limp and it gets even harder to breath.

There’s no one else in the room; no one to call out for help to. He’s glad—he doesn’t want anyone else to see what he has become. His petals are shrinking into ashes and oh, _fuck_ it’s a sight that he’d never wish upon anyone.

A falling flower, on the brink of death.

His body slowly gives up as I approach him. It’s tempting, oh, so tempting to finally touch him. 

So I do. 

He falls then, wilting. And on his last breath, I whisper, “You did well, my falling flower. But now you have to come with me.”

  
Heaven has never tasted so sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> i have nothing to say for myself except for i’m sorry.


End file.
